


She is a kind of thunderstorm

by fannishliss



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Women of Supernatural, fan poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:01:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishliss/pseuds/fannishliss





	She is a kind of thunderstorm

**Title: Women of Supernatural #15:  Meg**  
Author: [](http://fannishliss.livejournal.com/profile)[**fannishliss**](http://fannishliss.livejournal.com/)   
Series: 42 Days of Metallicar and the Women of Supernatural (#15)  
Rating: PG  
Warning:  POEM.  Watch out, yall, fannishliss is a poet!!!  
Word count: ~500.  
Pairing/Characters: no pairing.  Demon Meg first showed up in "Scarecrow" (1.11), along with later episodes 1.16 Shadow, 1.21 Salvation, and 1.22 Devil's Trap, and then possessed Sam in 2.14 Born Under a Bad Sign.   Human host, Meg Masters,  was introduced in 4.02 Are You There, God? It's Me, Dean Winchester.  
Spoilers: up through 4.02 I guess!  
Notes/Disclaimers: This series of stories, ficlets and drabbles featuring the Impala and the Women of Supernatural are being posted as part of the 42 Days of Metallicar, hosted by [](http://alias-chick.livejournal.com/profile)[**alias_chick**](http://alias-chick.livejournal.com/) . This is a work of transformative fiction and is not for profit.   
  
She is a kind of thunderstorm,  
a swirling black cloud crackling with bolts of rage.  
Sometimes she unleashes tentacles like twisters.  
Sometimes she pours out a flood of tears --  
not the sacred salt tears of women and men,  
but the furious tears of baffled malignance,  
the desire to lash out, to raze, or better,  
to torment --  the torment of the battered soul,  
that pitiful thing cringing in upon itself,  
locked into awareness by her hooks and chains.

If Hell is a prison, made of bone and flesh, blood and fear,  
then Meg is made Hell, home to this daughter of Hell--  
a vehicle prepared for her, not a thing of power, forged by men,  
a thing of fire and acceleration, carrying heroes undaunted toward glory --  
this vehicle is flimsy flesh and fear, regret and dread: no roar, only a desperate whimpering.  
She'll call herself Meg-- why not?  She's kept no other name. 

She wasn't so different, really, from this older sister from Andover, Mass.  
Unknowingly she drank that blood, and won that long ago tournament --  
more than that, she'll never recall.  The girl she was is no more now  
than this raging storm, this chalice of blood calling home to Father,  
and the girl within her recoils,  soul small and retching ineffectually,  
hopelessly trying to look away from the horrors she smiles on.

When she calls herself His daughter, it's the way Sam's His son.  
Didn't he ever notice the glint of her even white teeth, the long,  
teasing legs she's been striding about in? Hasn't he looked into her mirror?  
She can lure and lie with this tidy young body, hair to chop short in a sassy bob,  
her sympathies snares, her enticements, poison.  
She was made, not born, the elder sister, but not the Girl Queen.  
Merely her Father's obedient servant.  She knew which choices were hers to make:  
to call up demons gone mindless, driven past all hope of light, mere shadows with claws,  
their passion to rend -- to  twist, and steal, and taunt, and lure--  
but she does not defeat these brothers, this father, and at last they dispell her, back to hell.

She'll return one last time, this time taking her brother.  
Still, she'll be Meg for them -- sweet, sinful sister --  
unacknowledged kinship deeper than blood or bone --  
twin to the soul of the man she is riding -- hell,  
closer to that part of him than his flesh and blood can ever be.

Burnt and blasted, she wearily brings out her claws yet again,  
scaling the chasm, the chains, the jolts, but with every inch upward,  
she lets go the name (Winchester, Winchester) till the rage of her storm  
is clear of the curse of their righteousness.  On to new pastures  
to raven and ravage among more helpless sheep than those fate-ridden brothers,  
archetypes of the destined, borne by black iron through a thousand midnights.

 

   



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